Not ready to know why I wanted to.
Voices drift up from below.
Two guards move along a patrol path, their footsteps crunching on gravel. Elio straightens, attention shifting.
“Un momento.”
He moves to the edge of the terrace and calls down in rapid Italian. The guards approach, responding in equally rapid dialect. Elio descends three steps to speak with them more privately, leaving me momentarily alone.
I drift down onto the path below the terrace. Not far. Just far enough to feel something like autonomy.
Could I run?
I have more space now than I’ve had since he took me. Theoretically, I could sprint into the darkness, find a wall, climb it?—
And then what?
Miles of darkness. Armed guards. No phone, no money, no passport. Nothing I can name beyond this place except my family, half a world away. Running isn’t escape.
Running is suicide.
A guard comes from around the corner. One I haven’t seen before. Younger, with a cruel set to his mouth. He circles towardme, and his gaze crawls over the green silk dress in a way that makes my skin prickle.
He says something in Italian. Fast. Dismissive.
My comprehension is spotty, but I catch enough.Americana. Puttana.Something about the boss beingstregato. Bewitched.
Every instinct sharpens.
I know this type. Have dealt with a million men who think they can say anything, look at anything, because who’s going to stop them? My body tenses, getting ready for a fight.
I don’t get a chance to respond though.
Elio moves.
One moment he’s on the terrace. The next, he’s vaulted the railing in a single fluid motion and landed on the path beside us. The guard doesn’t have time to flinch before Elio’s hand closes around his throat and slams him into the stone wall.
Time stretches thin.
Frozen, I watch, unable to react fast enough to do anything but witness.
“Ripeti quello che hai detto.” Elio’s voice is ice. Completely calm. More terrifying than any shout. “Repeat what you said.”
The guard chokes. His feet scrabble for purchase against the gravel.
“Signore—I didn’t?—”
“You looked at her.” Each word is a separate sentence. A separate crime. “You spoke to her. Youinsultedwhat’s mine.”
The other guard takes a step forward. “Capo, he didn’t mean?—”
Elio’s gaze cuts his way. The guard shuts up immediately and steps back. Everyone understands. This is between the boss and the man who crossed an unspoken line.
He releases the guard’s throat, making him gasp for air, and stumble forward. Elio waits, lets him catch his balance, lets him think for one stupid second that it’s over, before he strikes.
A blow to the stomach that bends the guard double. A knee to the face that snaps his head back, blood spraying in a dark arc. The guard collapses, hands lifting in instinctive, useless defense.
Elio drops with him.
